


Black Hole

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, Dubiously Consensual Caliginous Sex, F/M, Helmsman Kink, In The Worst Way Possible, M/M, Unrequited Pale Feelings, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:31:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her claws dance lightly across newly-formed nerves in a way that almost itches, and you squirm partially under that and partially under the unabashed <i>hunger</i> in her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Hole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cervineghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cervineghost/gifts).



> Basically some awful Condesce/Helmsman porn with a little pale DualPsii at the end. It's nasty. Enjoy! (Sort of.)

It’s around that time of the sweep again when she comes to visit and breathe life back into the husk you call a body. Trailing behind her is a familiar caped figure that ever stands guard at the door to the helmsblock while she, bedecked in fuchsia and gold and a cloud of swirling hair, grins her glassy-sharp grin and walks towards you.

“How are you doin’ tonight, buoy?” She purrs, caressing your hollowed-out cheek and brushing aside the tendrils trying to burrow into your gums. It stings when she tugs them out of the way to run her cool knuckles over the skin, but the sting goes away immediately as her touch closes the wounds. It would be so much easier if she let it hurt, but wherever she tears out the bioware only hurts for a moment as she peels back your suit and pulls chunky ropes of pinkish tissue out of the way until you’re stripped to the hips, shivering at your exposure.

Her claws dance lightly across newly-formed nerves in a way that almost itches, and you squirm partially under that and partially under the unabashed _hunger_ in her eyes.

“So scrawny.” She coos at you, her hands sliding down to your waist and squeezing. “Should come in here with somefin for you to actually eat, would you pike that?” She knows very well that you can’t eat without getting sick anymore, and the fish puns only make you sick of her.

She doesn’t just look for long, though; she never just looks for long. Not a moment sooner and she pinches your grubscars, makes you flinch at the sting of sensation; but either she takes your shuddering for pleasure or takes more joy in your pain (you wouldn’t be surprised) and she does it again, long nails digging into the skin until you gasp for air and whimper. She has the nerve to shoosh you, and it makes your gastric sac tie itself in knots.

You force yourself to focus on that sick feeling, your eyes dim with it as you look away from her, the glowing points of your pupils burning in the low light.Too bad she notices, because she takes hold of one of your feeders, the one in your left temple, and _yanks,_ as if she were trying to draw the tendril out of your skull. You hiss, and glare at her with hazy pain in your eyes behind the goggles, the sting throbbing intensely before she finally lets you go and you shudder.

“Ain’t polite to ignore the Empress, buoy.” She growls, before pressing her painted lips into yours, all soft skin and cutting little teeth. You moan into it in spite of yourself, your flesh so touch starved that you’ll take even this, take what little pleasure she gives you amid the pain. It’s not pitch with the way you can’t fight back, but it feeds into a perverse sort of lust that makes what comes next a little easier, even if the coiling sickness in your guts only gets worse.

The tendrils around your hips are tugged away when she breaks the kiss, a line of spit and blood between your panting mouths, cool breath on your lips. Your skin is dark with blood and you know it, because so is hers, and when she smiles again her teeth are stained with your color. (It makes your bulges twitch in something like fear and interest, the thought that it could be something other than or mingled with blood if she wanted.) She pulls your tattered flightsuit lower and heals the wounds along your thighs with her thumbs, pinching them closed before the flesh knits back together, and then her cool fingers are between your legs, palm pressed flush against your bulge sheathe and nails prickling at the tightly stretched lips of your nook, making you shiver again. That’s one of the few biowires she won’t remove, but she does tug and stroke it like someone might do for your neglected bulges, and it’s that thought that has you unsheathing with a soft gasp.

Already you’re starting to float away, thoughts melting into a tenuous collection of contact points and sensations. Her teeth close over one of your nipples and she sucks as she bites, as if she wanted to rip it out. Her other hand strokes your face, and for all that you hate her and yourself, you still lean into her cool palm and arch against her supple lips, starting to pant.

“Such a good buoy.” She murmurs against your chest, looking up at you through long, pinkish lashes. “You been a reel good buoy for me, Helmsman, I think that deserves a reward.”

“Bite me.” You growl.

She laughs and rakes a single claw up your body, hip to shoulder, leaving a long line that makes you writhe. She follows it with her tongue. “Already did, silly.” She purrs. “I have something else more fun in mind.”

You know exactly what she has in mind, no point being coy about it. You brace yourself as much as you can when she tangles her fingers in the choppy remains of your hair. She kisses your throat and wish you didn’t hate her as much as you do, because you know someday your get will come crawling out of the slurry with your fate stamped across their genes. She gnaws at the crook of your neck, not yet hard enough to break skin, and winds her other fingers in your bulges. Her hair tickles your chin (you wish you could rip it out of her skull.)

Instead you sigh against her and sag in the grip of the bioware, feel your nook squeeze around the massive wire jammed so far inside of you that you can’t move without jostling it some. It’s starting to pulse, wakened by the slow creep of your arousal like she herself had commanded it programmed, the questing tip of it coiling around your swelling shameglobes.

You growl at her again and turn your face to bury it in her hair. “Hurry up.” You hiss, more because you want this over with than because of your need. But she takes your impatience borne of disgust as impatience borne of lust, and nips you again. You can’t deny that lust is a small part of it (lies, you want her nearly as much as you despise her), and your eyes track her movements as she drifts away with a breathy chuckle, tutting at you like you were a wriggler.

You’d look away to spite her but you can’t seem to bring yourself to as she slides her hands over her hips, up her sides and behind her neck. She unzips her suit with a surprising amount of grace and peels it off without so much as glancing her many bangles, and you’re transfixed by the sight of dark fabric pulling away from her like a second skin. You drink her in like a drug, every revealed inch of sultry pinkish-grey; nipples, grubscars, battlescars. Your eyes are drawn most to the massive, coiling length between her thighs, thick as your wrist at the base and riddled with little frills along the sides.

When she steps out of the suit, she licks her plump lips like she’s about to devour you and takes hold of her bulge, sliding her fingers along its length hypnotically. They come away sticky with her prefluid when she pulls them away and grins, bringing her slick fingers up to your lips. With her other hand, she pushes your legs apart, then nudges them further open with her knee. Her bulge tangles in yours, squeezing with uncanny control.

“Want a taste?” She teases, smearing her forefinger along your lower lip, and you want to bite her but you know she would take it pitch, and you don’t want to give her that satisfaction or admit to yourself how much you burn for her, it’s downright sick. You keep your jaw carefully slack as she pushes that finger into your mouth and curls it against your tongue, and she pouts at the lack of reaction while you breathe just a little harder.

You try to focus on breathing a little more slowly; though, that’s considerably difficult with her bulge inching lower, towards your nook, still tangled in one of yours. Her smile makes your face burn almost as much as the way she fucks your mouth with her ring-bedecked hand. You’re careful to glare more than you make noise.

You fail.

All the air rushes out of you when she untangles her bulge from yours, pumping the yellow length of you, and shoves herself wholly into the tight confines of your nook. You can’t help but whine, a high, pathetic noise of pain, and she dares to shoosh you for it though she’s clearly pleased that she finally got something out of you. You’re too focused on the rapidity of your breathing, on the blood pounding in your ears and the pained little sounds coming from your ravaged throat around her fingers. She moans as she swivels her hips and buries herself deeper.

“I’ll make it good for you too, Tunafish, this is your reward remember? I’ll make it nice.” She sucks on the lobe of your ear and you burn with the contact, with fury, hot and heavy in the hollow beneath your jutting ribs. Dualscar meets your eyes at last and you try to focus on that but it’s like she’ll rip you open. It’s too much, you’re going to break; you wish you could spread your legs further as inch after inch of her is forced into your nook so hard that you feel a hot line of something wet leaking down your thighs.

She nips your throat and you feel that flare in your guts burn hotter and realize, this isn’t yours, this is something else entirely- you feel that same burn in every point of contact between you and the bioware, where it’s dug into your flesh like teeth. You’re being pumped full of pitch hormones, probably the primary reason your bulges are writhing between your bodies and every nip sends a flare through your blood; there’s so much that it makes your head spin and you can taste adrenaline in the back of your throat. If she’s not careful, you’ll overdose.

You feel sick. You’d love to get sick all over her hair. You almost do but she pulls your head back so hard that your neck creaks and you wonder if she’ll break it and you’ll be free, but no such luck comes to you as her lips press into the hollow of your collarbones and she bucks into you, making you keen.

You jerk in pain as she forces another inch into you; she grunts and you feel her pull out, just a few inches, only to rut into you deeper, and you gasp as her bulge winds around the biowire stuffed inside you like there were two bulges in there; you’re stretched so tight you might snap. You’re honestly a little afraid that you’ll look down and see her bulge poking through a stray hole she might have left in your guts.

“ _Fuck,_ ” You finally bring yourself to hiss, when you can breathe again. She purrs and rolls her hips languidly, her hands exploring your back and pinching at the bases of the wires buried in your spine, making you tremble in her arms as your nerves fire off bone-deep and hot.

You’re enjoying it entirely too much, quite literally; it hurts so bad but you find yourself wanting more, trying to rip your hands out of the wiring so you can respond to her properly, make this even. Sparks pop between your horns and in your teeth as you snarl at her, and she _laughs._ “Now you’re getting into it!” She titters.

“Fuck _you._ ” You growl, and then gasp as she digs her nails into one of the ports just above your ass, sending a shock up your spine that’s probably a danger sign but oh God, it’s so good; makes you writhe like a hooked fish and press down harder on her bulge snaking up between your swollen globes.

“That’s right, Tunafish.” She purrs, pulling out partway and making you pant as the frills along her bulge writhe along the inside of your nook. “ _Fuck_ me.”

She slams back in, crashes into one of your swollen globes and you howl. Dualscar flinches in your peripheral vision, but you can hardly bring yourself to care amid the cacophony of _fuck it hurts it’s too much_ rattling around your pan, tinged with a fierce, burning sort of pleasure around the edges. You’re dripping from every hole and you’re disgusted with yourself for it; when your vision clears you realize she’s stopped, but as soon as you growl at her she’s going at it again, fucking you twitchy and sore. Her bulge is swollen huge and rubbing roughly against the inside of your nook and your aching, overstimulated globes, and your breath is louder in your ears than the wet sounds between your legs. She squeezes your ass again, long nails tearing the fabric bunched around your hips and ass, and she kneads the flesh there with an appreciative purr.

Her mouth crashes into yours again, vicious, unrelenting, tongue plunging past your teeth and you can’t resist the urge to bite her. She groans into you and finally lets go, swelling you with her material, using you like a pail, like an animal. You’re disgusted on some level but it feels too good on others for you to resist letting go too, your teeth sunk into her lower lip as you try to muffle your pained screaming. You feel wetness running down your cheeks, hot and salty, you’re pushed so far that it’s driving you a little crazier than you were before.

You don’t let go when she tries to pull back, try to wrench your head so you can tear her pretty face and get a little vengeance for all the trouble she’s given you. Her hand clamps on your jaw, though, and forces your mouth open so she can pull back. Her eyes are half-lidded and lovely, and you want to jab them out with your horns.

She grins when she looks down at your swollen belly, chuckling to herself as her hand goes between your legs, slides along the sloppy, wrecked mess of your nook. You’re panting and wired still, and you can feel the actual wire shoved in there still moving, still fucking you, even though it’s bearable now, an afterthought. She brings her fingers up covered in fuchsia and gold and licks it off right in front of you. Fuck her for making something that nasty so hot.

“See, Tunafish?” She purrs, arms draped around your shoulders and voice cool in your ear. She nips your lobe again. “I told you you’d enjoy your reward. Kipper up the good work, Helmsman.”

Then she kisses your cheek, the tacky stickiness of her lipstick leaving a mark on your skin, the movement mockingly punctuated with a soft “mwah” before she slides off of you like an oil slick. She sashays away and hip-checks Dualscar on her way out, and he stays stoically in place until the last tendril of her hair leaves the block. It’s only then that he steps forward, stops in front of your wrecked, wretched form in silence. There’s a deep scowl on his mouth.

You’re asking for something worse, really, when you say to him, “What, you want sloppy seconds after the Empress ‘cause you can’t pail her instead?” He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even slap you for your insolence, merely takes out a handkerchief and wipes the tearstains off your face, sluices off the worst of the slurry, pulls the flightsuit back over your body. It’s so tender that you’re floored by it for a moment, before you bite back again. “Did you get demoted? This is maintenance drone work.”

“Shoosh.” He pats your cheek. What. You heard that right, felt that right, the motherfucker just shooshpappeded you. His voice is deep and raspy and calms you immediately, no matter how different it is from Kankri’s. You freeze as he keeps cleaning you up, then washes his hands in the saltwater starting to flood the block again. When he looks back up at you, there’s something stern and… concerned, in his face.

“What are you doing?” You ask him, softly, so softly you’re surprised at yourself more than at what he’d just done.

“I’m taking care of you. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Now shoosh.” He zips up your suit and guides the wires back where they should be, and you sort of hate him a little for that too because _fuck_ it hurts when they sink back into place. You’re shuddering at the end of it, and he continues petting your face, murmuring shooshes and reassurances.

“Stop,” You gasp. It feels wrong, alien, something you haven’t felt in a long, long time. “Stop, stop, you’re not my moirail, what the fuck- get away from me, you chumlicking fuck, I-“

“Shoosh.” He does it again, even taps your lips, and you shut up immediately. You look into his eyes, feel your own brimming with tears that you can’t quite place. He sighs and takes his hands off you. “I know, it’s awful. I shouldn’t be putting myself all over you just because I pity you after all the times I’ve had to watch her do this to you. Just. Think about it. Maybe I can help you get through this. Maybe I can make it a little better.”

“Get away from me.” You’re trembling and faintly afraid now. You feel like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down. Kankri isn’t here to hold you, Kankri is long dead. Dualscar raises his hands like he’s going to pap you again, but you shrink back. You haven’t thought about Kankri’s touch in a long, long time, but you remember it like moonlight, remember how warm he was. Dualscar’s touch is all wrong. And yet.

He sighs. “Just think about it. I want to help you.” He says, and walks away, leaving you alone as you feel your mind sink into the wires and once again you become the ship. Somewhere in all that you watch him through the cameras like a ghost.


End file.
